Fuel
by Velma
"Jesus, Jesus, come on, Joey," Chris cuffed him. "It'd be nice to have the car actually, you know, running when he gets here." Joey flipped Chris off, then hit the ignite switch, grinning as the engine roared to life. "Thank fucking GOD," Chris sighed, slumping back against the garage door. "You're a lifesaver. Never doubted you for a second."
Lifesaver indeed. Joey had kept him from falling apart more times than Chris cared to remember. He owed the guy more than his life, not that Joey'd ever collect.
Seven years he'd known the guy, and he still couldn't figure him out. How some guido from Brooklyn of all places, neither a gearhead nor from a racing dynasty, had wound up one of the most respected mechanics in the business was a mystery to everyone. But Joey was a genius around cars, and Chris had never seen him lose his cool, even in pretty desperate situations.
Joey'd left Pearlman Racing for him, too, a sign of loyalty Chris couldn't really get his head around, especially considering how well he'd been paid and the fact that Joey had child support and alimony to deal with. As soon as Chris had mentioned starting the team, Joey was in without batting an eye.
That was probably as good a sign as any of why Joey wasn't good marriage material, but he ran one hell of a pit. Joey was loyal to his cars and his friends to a fault, and his marriage to his high school sweetheart had ended less than a year after it had started. He'd gotten a beautiful daughter out of the deal, though. Joey, and Briahna, when he had her, lived in the guest house on Chris's property. It was the least Chris could do to make up for the crappy salary Joey was earning.
Joey was family now. And he'd saved Chris yet again.
"Company," Lance's voice cracked over the intercom.
Chris took a deep breath and pushed himself away from the wall, nodding to Joey as he cut the engine. "Shall we?"
They made their way up to the ranch house, where Lance was waiting on the porch. He had to grin when he saw the Ranger making its way up the drive. "You remember when we could fit our whole life in the bed of a pickup truck?" he asked Joey, who laughed and nodded.
Lance wrinkled his nose. "I don't understand how you lived like that. And that truck has got to go. He's driving a Ford.
Chris and Joey nodded in unison, sighing wistfully. "A Ford."
Justin was out of the truck practically before it had rolled to a stop, and Chris had to bite back a knowing smile as he slowly made his way down the stairs to greet him.
"Justin, you made good time." He winked at JC, who was getting out of the cab. "Mr. Chasez. Good to see you."
He threw an arm around Justin's shoulders. "Justin, this is my partner, Lance, the brains of the organization. He's the front office, middle management, and president, so, you know. He does everything but sign the checks. Be nice. He bites. That guy over there," he pointed at Joey, "is Joey Fatone. Your crew chief. I don't have to tell you to be nice to him. Your ass depends on it. Joey, Lance, this is Justin. And," he reached around, pulling JC forward, "hiding behind me is JC, the one member of Justin's previous crew who knew the difference between pliers and wrenches, and our new spotter."
JC waved sheepishly as Justin stepped forward, flashing a million dollar smile at Lance before he turned to Joey. Chris could see the dollar signs flashing in Lance's eyes at the sight. He leaned forward, whispering, "Try to keep the drool to a minimum there, Bass. Gentlemen," he spread his arms wide. "Welcome to CKI Racing. The car's this way."
~.~
He thought Justin was going to cream his pants the first time he sat in the car. Chris was pretty sure Justin hadcreamed his pants the first time he'd taken it out for practice laps, his hoots loud enough that they'd all had to pull the headsets away from their ears.
"He's good," Joey had acknowledged, and JC had lit up like a Christmas tree as if the praise had been his own.
"Too good," Chris said, hitting the lap on his stopwatch."We can't afford his confidence."
Joey looked at him pointedly. "He races like you did."
"Yeah," Chris's eyes shifted downward as he gripped his cane. "You see where that got me."
~.~
It didn't take long for Justin's name to start getting mentioned in stories about the upcoming season. Part Lance's doing, and part the fact that the story was larger than life - a racer seeking redemption through an untested driver - it was bound to draw attention. The average age of Justin's crew was twenty-five, and at thirty-one Chris was the senior member of the operation. People seemed to ignore the fact that the youth and relative inexperience of the team was more a sign of his financial situation than anything else. No matter. The press was eating up the story, and so were sponsors.
Racing sites were peppered with mentions of the kid, and already there were predictions of a rivalry between Justin and Richardson's kid, Carter, and expectations for both of them soared.
Chris had been careful about who had access to Justin. He'd brought in Benny Parsons and Darrell Waltrip, as much because he wanted their opinions as he knew they'd mention the kid in coverage. Justin was reveling in it, of course, he took to the attention like a duck to water, and Chris had never seen anyone work a room full of suits or press better than Justin could.
Between Lance and Justin, they had these guys eating out of their hands. Lance had come through right away with Coors Light as a major sponsor without really having to break into a sweat. That was unheard of.
"I'm going to have to drink that piss?" Justin asked when Lance had given him the good news.
"Hey," Chris said. "Could've been worse. Could've been Viagra."
"Nah," Justin smiled sweetly. "They're waiting for your triumphant return."
Chris flipped him off. Punk.
It wasn't just the spotlight that Justin craved. Chris could see Justin psyching himself up for the rivalry, too. It came up one day as the group of them watched an RPM Tonight story about NASCAR's young blood.
"Man, I cannot wait for Daytona," Justin said. "Carter, man. He's mine."
Chris raised an eyebrow. "You don't even know the guy."
Justin rubbed his hands together. "That's not the point. It's the classic story. Good versus evil. The hero and the villain."
"What makes you so sure you're the hero?" Lance asked from across the room.
"Dude," Justin rolled his eyes. "I'm Chris's protege, here. I'm picking up the gauntlet from where Chris threw it down. I have to be the good guy."
"Oh, my savior," Chris started to snicker. "Where are you getting this from?"
"Well, you know, you and Richardson, man. You two hated each other."
Joey started coughing behind Justin's back, and Lance was laughing in the corner.
"Yeah," Chris nodded, eyes glimmering, "but that was only after we started fucking each other." He walked out of the room.
Justin stared after him, open-mouthed.
~.~
"So," Justin said conversationally a few days later, leaning against the car, "you and Richardson, huh?"
Chris grunted, dropping a socket wrench in the toolbox. "Ancient history, J. Nothing to tell."
"Well, I mean," Justin scratched his head. "You can see how it's kind of hard to picture, right? I mean. It's just. Really hard to imagine."
"Don't strain yourself there," Chris sighed. "It was what it was, Justin. We were friends. Teammates. We got drunk one night a long time ago, messed around, kept messing around, he got a girlfriend, we stopped messing around, I slammed into a wall, we lost touch. That's all. End of story. And you know," Chris paused, "it's more than a little odd that the Kevin thing is throwing you more than the whole me sleeping with guys thing."
Justin shrugged. "Well, I mean, I figured. You and Lance, right?"
Chris blanched. "Is it that obvious?"
"Christ, Chris. I live above the garage. JC lives with Joey. The five of us spend pretty much every waking moment together. Give me a little credit."
"It's not like it's a big secret or anything," Chris sighed.
"Right," Justin said dryly. "you just don't tell anyone."
"This is NASCAR," Chris said. "Auto racing. These are damn fine people but it's not a community that's exactly enlightened on the subject. Shit, time was talent and a pretty face like yours, you were an open target for gay-baiting. Look at the crap they say about Gordon. Be glad that's not you, man."
Justin shifted uncomfortably, eyes on his feet. "Yeah."
"Kid, uh." Something was up, and Chris was really, really, really bad at this stuff. "There anything you need to tell me?"
"Nope," Justin shoved his hands deep in his pockets. "Nothing at all." He turned to go, pausing in the doorway. "I think it's cool, you know. For the record. You and Lance."
By the time Chris looked up, Justin was gone.
Chris didn't sleep well that night, tossing and turning until Lance finally rolled over on top of him, pinning him down to the mattress. "Dude. What?"
Chris sifted his fingers through Lance's hair. "Justin knows. About us."
Lance groaned. "Newsflash, Kirkpatrick. Everyone knows, and as long as you're not inclined to talk about it, neither are they."
"God bless the South," Chris murmured, kissing him.
Lance rolled off him. "You seriously thought after almost two years - time in which we've been attached at the hip - that people thought we were, oh, I don't know, roommates? You really are as dumb as you look."
"You talk too much," Chris said, sliding down Lance's body.
"Yeah, but I, uh," Lance gasped, arching up. "I know when to shut up."
Almost two years, Chris thought afterward, idly running his finger down the line of Lance's back. Two years and he knew the way Lance took his coffee, how he liked his eggs. To stop talking when the vein in Lance's forehead started to twitch, and to start talking when his leg started to tap.
They'd known each other longer than that, of course. None of that love at first sight garbage. Lance had been an intern for Pearlman his first year in college, a gig that had originated as a favor for Lance's father, a parts distributor who'd come through for Lou time and time again. Lance had been good, though, really good, and when Jason, the guy who'd been handling Chris's publicity and accounting, had jumped ship, Lou'd offered the position to Lance permanently. College, it seemed, would wait.
Chris had liked Lance from the beginning. The kid had an attitude, he was as aggressive as Chris was, and he made things happen. Chris had never paid as much attention to the business side as he should, and in Lance he found someone who seemed as committed to his best interests as he was to Pearlman's.
Chris had had his suspicions about Lance. Confirmed them at a victory party after Talladega, in what would be the season before his last. He'd been an asshole about it, too, a drunken screw that he'd barely acknowledged after the fact, but Lance had hung around.
Hung around, and he was the first face Chris saw when he woke up in that hospital bed. Of course, Chris vomited, then, and passed out soon after, so it wasn't quite as sickly sweet and girly as it might have been.
Still, Lance had been there, every day, as Chris moved from the ICU, to recovery, to the rehab facility. It had been Lance who'd driven him home from that hellhole, and Chris had kissed him, there on his front porch. Their first real kiss as far as Chris had been concerned.
"I'm an idiot and a really awful risk," he'd said, "and I don't understand why you're here."
"I love you," Lance had said. "I knew I could wait you out."
Lance had put him back together. Helped find the pieces, anyway. And as much as Lance refused to take credit for it, the televisions left tuned to the Speed channel, the copies of Open Wheel magazine left oh-so-subtly next to the toilet, they'd all combined to bring racing back to Chris's life. CKI was as much Lance's as it was Chris's. Partners in every sense of theword.
Chris pulled the sheet up over Lance, smiling at the sleeping form.
"Quit watching me and go to sleep," Lance murmured. Okay, so he wasn't sleeping, then. "Your thinking is keeping me awake."
Chris sprawled out across Lance's back. "This better?" he asked.
"Mmpfh," was all he remembered hearing in response before he passed out.